In the Arms of the Angel
by Ahmar
Summary: A short story about comfort and the nature of saviors, both those we acknowledge and those we'd rather ignore.


**Author's Notes:** First of all, this is something of a side story to my longer, multi-chaptered story Sesen. It contains no spoilers other than some elaboration on a subject that the larger work only alludes to in passing. If you enjoy this, you may want to give Sesen a try. Also, there's a reference in here that I'm going to a special, special Hell for making.

This is a oneshot, by the way.

**In the Arms of the Angel**

**By Ahmar**

"Do with him what you will."

Bakura let out a startled yelp as the man, his master's guest, pressed his wrists against the cold stone of the wall, the force threatening to dislocate them. The man grinned, baring the perfect white teeth of nobility framed by a neat black beard, and threw Bakura to the floor. Bakura curled into a defensive ball as the men above him laughed. A moment later, his master had him by the hair, hauling him out of his protective position. He whined and kicked at the man, his long, lean legs striking out at anything and everything around him.

The rich man caught one of his legs mid-kick and squeezed, long fingers digging into the muscle. He chuckled mirthfully. Tears welled in Bakura's eyes as the realization that he was no match for them slowly dawned on him.

"Pretty, isn't he? Better enjoy him while he's small, though."

The master jerked Bakura's head to the side to face him. His bony, skull-like face twisted up in a cold smile.

"Don't make the night hard on our guest by pulling your shit. Show respect to a priest."

Bakura's body crumbled to the floor again, and a swift kick was delivered to his side. He tried to curl up again, but the man, the priest, grabbed his wrists and pinned him to the floor. His jutting erection pressed into Bakura's side as his smooth hands wandered over the boy's body.

"You must taste so good. Just like a young boy should."

In that moment, the atmosphere of the room changed. Lips on his, a fierce rush of panic, the taste of blood, and a piercing scream.

The priest recoiled, a steady stream of blood pouring from under his hands as he clasped them to his mouth. Without thinking, Bakura spat the small bit of flesh in his mouth onto the floor and got to his feet.

"Piece of trash!"

Bakura's vision blurred and a soft hum rung out in his ears as he toppled to the floor again. The pain in his head only registered once he hit the floor. His master stood over him, face set in a scowl as his guest continued to shout swears and incoherent threats.

Another kick to the side. Bakura made the mistake of trying to catch the master's foot, and was rewarded with a kick to the throat. His eyes watered, and he fell limp, gasping for air and silently praying that his throat hadn't been damaged.

"I give you a home, and this is how you repay me!"

Bakura shivered softly. Dizziness overtook him, followed by a strange pulling sensation. As if something in the air were trying to pull a part of him away.

'Am I dying...?'

The screaming stopped, and a bloody fist collided with the side of Bakura's head. The humming returned as the priest rolled him over. His master stood over him, his expression blank as the man produced a keen knife from his belt. Bakura's master stooped and held his head in place, facing up. Pale trails of light streaked across the ceiling as Bakura's vision blurred.

"I won't take your eye for something like this."

The priest's words were slurred by the absence of much of his lower lip as he straddled Bakura's chest, settling his weight onto him. Bakura's breath left him immediately. The cold edge of the priest's knife touched to his face. A sharp twinge of pain, followed by a trickle of blood. Bakura screamed.

Hot pain streaked down his face as the priest carved a straight line over one eye, down Bakura's cheek. Blood flowed from the wound, bright and hot. It flowed into Bakura's hair, bright red mingling with white.

Another cut, horizontal. Then another, lower on the central line. Bakura's face throbbed with pain as he struggled to get free. His captors held him in place. Tears of pain poured from Bakura's eyes, running into the wound and only furthering his suffering.

Only when the knife was lifted away did he notice the dim outline against the ceiling. Pain ceased. Bakura smiled as a wave of calm washed over him.

Calm. Safe. That was all that he felt as a massive hand snatched the priest up, relieving the pressure on his chest. He breathed deeply, savoring the cool night air as the man's blood rained down from above. His master's screams went unheard. The mangled lower half of the priest's body collided with the far wall. The upper half landed with a wet smack on the floor a few yards away. The screams died out suddenly, and Bakura watched chunks of offal and flesh fly overhead.

Several minutes later, something called him to stand. He complied, with some difficulty. Some pain remained, it seemed. He turned slowly, his reddened eyes narrowing at the sudden glare.

The most beautiful sight imaginable greeted him. Radiating light , a brilliantly white figure with arms outstretched. Welcoming. Wings unfurled behind it, the wings of some bird that Bakura had never seen. No pattern or color marred them; they were as bright and as white as the creature's body. A snake's body coiled beneath it. No, not beneath it. A part of it, in place of legs.

Bakura's smile broadened as the light engulfed the room, warm and inviting. He gaped, wide-eyed before taking the first shaky step toward it, his bony legs giving out just before he reached it. The creature's arms were there to catch him. It pulled him in, protecting and sheltering him as no one and nothing had since the day his mother died. Consciousness faded...

"Bakura?" a voice called softly.

The thief blinked blearily, hot streams falling from the corners of his eyes as his vision cleared. His face fell into a scowl as the pharaoh's face came into focus. He pulled away from the hand on his shoulder, a soft hiccuping sob betraying his cold actions.

"What're you doing here?" he said, his voice somewhat hoarse.

Atem settled on the bed next to him, his brows knitted up in a puzzled expression that Bakura would have found amusing in any other situation.

"Bakura-kun told me to check on you," the pharaoh said. "I guess cold medicine gives you weird dreams, too."

"Fuck you," Bakura sneered.

"You're crying," Atem said, reaching over to wipe the traces of moisture from Bakura's cheek. The thief turned his face away.

"It doesn't concern you, pharaoh," he said, turning over in the bed with a snarl. His knees drew up against his chest. "Just tell Ryou that I'm all right."

The pharaoh's weight shifted on the bed, and arms slowly encircled Bakura's body. The thief shuddered.

"You try so hard to drive people away," Atem said, his grip on Bakura tightening slightly. "Why not tell me what the dream was about, at least?"

"Why're you hugging me?" Bakura asked, purposely evading the question.

"Bakura-kun told me that it calms you down," Atem answered simply.

Damn him. Bakura had told him not to tell. He worried at his lip with his teeth, cringing as his breath hitched in his throat.

"It wasn't some stupid nightmare," Bakura said through his tightening throat. The pharaoh's arms only pulled him closer.

Atem brushed a fresher trail of moisture away. "You're still crying, though."

The tomb robber scowled and allowed himself to fall limp. He couldn't argue with that.

"Damn you," he said, a slight tremor in his voice as he gripped Atem's hand.


End file.
